


Unfinished Business

by Tigermoon98



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Dreadwing lives AU, EM Fields, Experimental Style, Grief/Mourning, I don't know Primeverse very well, I'm making stuff up, POV First Person, Revenge, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Transformers twin bonds, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, injuries, might be canon divergence, set after Dreadwing shows up but before Predaking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-06-24 05:31:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15623628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tigermoon98/pseuds/Tigermoon98
Summary: When the bond snapped, Dreadwing was lightyears away in an asteroid field. He thought his spark would burn out of his chest. He thought his armor would crumple in on the gaping hollow inside. He thought he was going to die.Then he didn’t.So he set course for Earth.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I really oughtn't be posting another story when my other two have me by the hair, but I can't resist. I saw some clips of Prime on youtube and decided that I need to explore Dreadwing a little. I'm dissatisfied with where his character arc ended and I can't find much fanfiction about him so I'm just gonna write it myself. : )
> 
> Updates will be irregular and sparse because my other two fics take priority.

All characters belong to their original creators. Only the writing itself is mine.

 

“Blah” = Spoken dialogue

::Blah:: = Comm lines

_ “Blah” _ = Telepathy

_ Blah _ = Private thoughts

~Blah~ = Bonded talk

//Blah// = Sign Language

 

UB PROLOGUE

 

_ “Never heard of a split spark lasting so long alone.” _

_   “His spark’s gotta be destabilising.” _

_   “Do you think he can tell how long he has?” _

_   “How long since his twin -?” _

_   “Got unfinished business, that one.” _

 

  I can hear the crew whispering. They’re not as subtle as they like to think, especially the doctor and his assistant. Nothing they are saying is news to me. It’s the speculation, the appraising glances, the cut-off mutters that irk me. Averted optics and reeled-in EMs. Sudden changes in direction to avoid my path.

  If someone would just upright ask me, I would know how to handle it. Lift my wings and look down my faceplate at whoever dared. Retort so scathingly they would scurry back to their possy with the news that my spark is as strong as ever.

  I would avoid answering the question because I don’t lie.

  There’s an hourglass over my helm. The sand is trickling away into the void my twin left and I’m crumbling with it. Before long, there will be so little left of me that I won’t even get up in the morning. Perhaps then someone will realise that my frame and my spark don’t match. One is alive and whole. The other is so damaged it might as well be dead. I hope they will have the cold reason necessary to rectify the disconnect.

  But I’m not yet gone. With every pulse my spark spins wilder, but it’s still strong enough to keep me out of the void. The emptiness pulls on me every day. My twin’s absence is so intense I sometimes think I see him from the corner of my optic. Sometimes I catch a sensor ghost while flying. Sometimes there’s another frame in my berth. Sometimes scarred hands touch between my wings as I wash.

  Most of the time, I just feel his optics. Watching me.

  My bond is a silent hole, full of jagged fragments that stab me when I try to touch. I can’t tell if my twin’s stare is accusing or not. Maybe it’s blank as the blackness he left where he fell.

  Split sparks aren’t meant to outlive each other. Our bond was already weakened by time and distance, which, I suppose, is why I did not follow him. I’d had time to grow used to living with a muted, in-stasis twin. When I don’t pay attention, I can almost trick myself into thinking he’s online and the void is just the darkness of his dreamless stasis. The illusion never lasts long. Then I’m back in reality and my spark still hurts so what’s the point in pretending?

  Skyquake is dead and I should be too.

  I can hear the crew whispering. They’re not asking anything I haven’t asked myself. That one Vehicon, though. He struck the nail on the head. Unfinished business indeed. I remember reading, long ago when datapads were for something other than business, about spark ghosts. Revenants. Vengeful phantoms.

  Would I know if I have become one? It there some test I can perform to see if I did indeed cease to be the day my twin passed? Am I just the personification of our revenge?

  My twin doesn’t answer.

  I can hear the crew whispering. I wasn’t here were Skyquake was killed, so I have to entertain the possibility that they know something I don’t. This ship is a nest of lies and tricks; no one aboard can tell me how my brother died or where his frame rests. The official story is vague and changes far too much for my liking.

  It irks me that my fellow Decepticons think I won’t notice their lies.

  War is the Pit. People die and there’s no rhyme or reason to it. We knew this from the start. All one can do is fight one’s hardest and keep true to one’s beliefs. Without such a guiding light, one will lose long before death.

  In the beginning, there was honor to be found on the battlefield. We rose up against tyranny and painted the streets with the energon of our oppressors. Our fallen brothers were shrouded with distinction worthy of their sacrifice.

  Where is Skyquake’s grave? I understand his parts may have been recycled, but unique pieces -his wings, helm, sparkchamber- are useless to another. 

  Why is the story so malleable? I want the truth so I know upon whom my vengeance must be wreaked. If the fault were solely the Autobots, there would be no reason to conceal it.

  My suspicions fall on every mech on this ship. Not even the Vehicons are above scrutiny, though I doubt they would act without orders. Anyone who had a hand in my twin’s death shall know my wrath. I intend to remind every mech on this planet why one does not separate Cybertronian twins.

  Perhaps then I can find some peace from his optics.

 

~~~

 

END OF PROLOGUE


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sad and stressed from college so I'm updating. The first person perspective/present tense is much harder than I expected. It's more difficult to put in details and vary sentence structure.
> 
> ...I should be doing my chemistry homework. Send happy thoughts?

All characters belong to their original creators. Only the writing itself is mine.

 

“Blah” = Spoken dialogue

::Blah:: = Comm lines

_ “Blah” _ = Telepathy

_ Blah _ = Private thoughts

~Blah~ = Bonded talk

//Blah// = Sign Language

 

UB CHAPTER ONE

 

  I find myself awake, staring at the faceless ceiling. If I stare long enough, green and purple dots start crawling up from the edges of my vision. They make shapes on the dark panels, shapes that twist around each other.

  One becomes a burning building, complete with tongues of flame leaping up. When I move my optics to focus on it, it changes. It’s a Grounder in alt, racing towards me with dust billowing behind him. The headlights make two glaring optics on the ceiling. For an instant, I could swear the Prime’s visage is looming over me.

  Pedesteps echo in the hall outside. I’m upright instantly, reaching for my sword because those aren’t my twin’s steps. The pommel is cool in my hand; the heft, soothing. My fuel pump hammers in my chassis as the sound passes by.

  When it’s quiet again, I let my frame go slack. My helm hits the hard berth with a clunk, but the clatter of metal on metal doesn’t stop when I still. I lift my helm, staring to scan the room, when I realize it’s my own hand.

  I sit up, holding my sword out. My hand is shaking uncontrollably.

_ Primus. _ I run a diagnostic of my motor functions, foolishly hoping it’s just a glitch. As I thought, the scan comes back clean. So this tremor is a symptom of something deeper, something my programming can’t touch. My other hand sneaks to my chestplates and rubs.

_ I’m not going to get any recharge tonight. _ I yank my hand away and fasten my sword between my wings. My blaster, placed just above my helm, it similarly holstered and then I’m ready to leave my quarters.

  I have nothing in here. Nothing that matters. All the datapads are from other Decepticons, containing orders or memos. The maintenance kit in the corner is standard issue. Every possession that counts stays in my subspace.

  The Nemesis’ corridors are quiet and empty. By reflex, I keep my steps light, soundless. All the way to the washrack, the only life I see is a Vehicon patrol. They don’t see me. Maybe it’s sparkling-ish to slink through the ship. Maybe I’m being a coward. All I care about is reaching the washrack, where the drone of solvent will dull the sharp-fanged void.

  It’s temporary, I know. Until the day my twin greets me at the Well, there will never be enough sound to fill up the silence inside me.

 

~~~

 

  There’s another fight. They’re all starting to blur together into one long battle that will never end. A tiny part of me is watching, wondering which of the Autobots I could fall to and make it look like a real warrior’s death. More of me(the part that remembers what it felt like to have a whole spark), would very much like to strangle that tiny part.

  I flip out of alt and land on both pedes, digging into the rocky soil. There’s an artifact embedded in a cliff face not far away. I’m told it has awesome power that will destroy the Autobots once and for all. Funny, that’s how the last artifact was described too.

  The large green mech charges me, wrecking ball swinging. I sidestep, placing myself inside the weapon’s range, and let the mech’s own momentum drive my elbow into his tank. My other hand chops on his wrist, preventing him from lifting the ball again.

  He grabs me by the arm and pivots, throwing my lighter frame into a towering tree. The plant shudders, but holds fast. I can feel grit from its bark flaking under my armor.

  I scramble to my pedes as the green warrior pants to regain his breath. Fresh determination sets his jaw as he sinks into a ready stance. I respond by unsheathing my sword. My blaster is too big and slow to be of use right now.

  Before we can reengage, the dull roar of a ship’s engines crashes over the treetops. Helms everywhere turn to seek it out. It isn’t the Nemesis -this ship is smaller and more agile, judging by the sound. It echos off neighboring hills, disguising its direction of origin. Strange. We haven’t detected any other Cybertronian ships since the other Wrecker, Wheeljack, arrived.

  I take advantage of everyone else’s pause to sprint towards the artifact. If the ship is friendly, I’ll have backup soon. If it’s hostile, I need to finish my mission.

  “Dreadwing!” the Prime calls out. He runs to intercept, hand folding away into a blaster.

  I scowl to myself. I had thought the Eradicons could keep him busy longer.

  The Prime fires at my face. By reflex, I lift an arm, blocking the first shot. It’s a mistake and I know it the second my arm cuts off my vision. My side is hit twice before I can react. Then I pivot on one pede, channeling my momentum into a roundkick. It takes the Prime under his shooting arm. There’s a satisfying crunch and I can tell by the way he staggers that I’ve bought a few sparkbeats.

  That’s all the time I need.

  I duck away and bound the remaining steps to the artifact. My Eradicons had nearly extracted it when the Autobots showed up. There’s a corner exposed -not enough to tell me what it is, but enough to tell me where to hit. The sedimentary rock turns to sand beneath my pede. I yank it loose in a shower of sand.

  “I’ll be taking that!” The shout alerts me just in time to turn my face right into the coming attack. He’s mostly red, with black and white markings, but that’s all I can see before his pedes impact my shoulders.

  We both tumble to the ground. My wing hits something hard enough to dent, drawing a cry of pain from my vocalizer.

  The red mech rolls away from me, springing to his pedes a little downhill. The Prime and Bulkhead come running up behind him. A confident grin curves the newcomer’s faceplates as he greets them.

  “Hey Prime! You remember me?”

  I shake dirt from my frame as the Prime wastes time responding in the negative. My wing stings enough to make me angry. “You’ll regret that,” I growl, standing.

  The red mech’s grin turns sharp and nasty. “Not today, I think.” His optics dart to the side.

  I duck and roll without looking.

  “Sideswipe!” shouts my would-be attacker. “I had him right there!”

  Landing in a crouch, I unsubspace a bomb and fling it at the second mech. He’s a luminous gold with distinct audial fins. They look familiar. I should know this mech. I don’t dwell on it as my bomb latches onto his leg.

  “Pffft,” says the red mech, to the disgust of his companion. “He’s not going anywhere.”

  “On the contrary,” I retort. That’s all the warning they’ll get. I collapse into alt, thrusters firing at maximum. Before I clear the treetops, I send the signal to my bomb. The yellow mech spits a curse as the beeping accelerates.

  My twisted wingtip pulls at the air, forcing me to sacrifice some speed. Belatedly, I signal any surviving Eradicons to return. Perhaps it’s my wing, perhaps it’s the niggling sense of foreboding these newcomers bring with them; but I don’t sense the bomb until it’s right under my belly.

  I pop my antigravs, trying to rise out of range. Not for the first time, I curse the design flaw that leaves my bombs unable to disarm.

  Then the explosion hoists me high into the sky. My sensors fritz as I tumble nosecone over tail. I’m out of alt before I can process what happened, limbs spread in an effort to catch something. Trees fill my vision, then they’re slapping my face. Their thin branches snap under my weight.

  I get one hand between the ground and I. Splitting pain shoots through my wrist upon impact -Primus damn it, that’s my sword hand! And then something strikes my forehelm and everything goes dark.

 

  I awaken to rough hands grabbing me by the arms. Instinct has me sweeping my legs under myself and kicking off the ground. I try to turn the move into a backflip, but my gyros disagree. They spin like a Rotary’s blades. My helm feels as if there’s a Rotary hacking away from the inside.

  All the air rushes out of my vents when I land flat on my back. It’s all I can do to lie there and gasp, waiting for the trees and sky to stop swinging.

  Two mecha, EMs filled with victorious battle-song, seize me by the shoulders. I can only struggle weakly as they haul me upright. I think my tank is trying to squeeze through my throat. I pitch my weight side to side, fighting wherever the pair are taking me. Their EM fields mesh together so perfectly, it’s like I’m surrounded on all sides by one mech. It’s disorienting.

  “We got ‘im, Prime!” cries one of them.

  “What do we  _ do _ with him?” asks the other.

  I forcibly shut down my gyros. Without their interference, my vision stabilizes. I can see my legs, limp between the newcomers’. They’re roughly Ratchet sized, I infer, though lean where the medic is bulky. Warriors, and experienced ones at that.

  “Dreadwing is a valuable officer. We will bring him back to our base for questioning.” The Prime’s voice is deep, sending a tremor through my wings.

  “Hey,” begins the red one, speaking over my helm to his companion. It burns into my audial with a glaring strobelight of pain. “Isn’t Dreadwing a twin too? Where’s the other one? Sky-something. Skyhigh?”

  My optics snap wide. Of course I know of the frontliner twins. Cybertronian twins are rare; we tend to take note of each other. Barring that, these two have a well earned reputation, especially among Seekers. I feel sick, and it’s not because of my pounding helmache.

  The nausea dissolves before the fury that burns through me. “His name,” I grit out “was SKYQUAKE!” I surge backward, wrenching free of the twins. Their round blue optics follow me as I draw my blaster.

  The gold one goes for a weapon on his back, but he doesn’t reach it before I start firing. The recoil knocks my weakened frame into a tree that holds me upright so I can keep shooting. Bright flashes of impact hurt my helm. Dimly, I can hear the Autobots calling commands.

  I don’t stop until my arms go numb.

  I call for a groundbridge and stumble into it.

  I don’t look back at the devastated forest.

 

~~~

 

  Bright medical lights sear through my optics, straight to my processor. I can’t hold back a groan as I lift a hand to block it.

  “Ah-ah-ah. Hands to yourself, Commander.” Knock Out intercepts my arm and nudges it back to my side.

  I force my optics open, blinking a tinted filter into place. It dims the light acceptably, granting me an excellent view of the medic’s white faceplates. A disgusted noise breaks out of my throat before I can censor it. I don’t want to get on the medic’s bad side.

  “What’s the damage?” I ask, trying to disguise the noise as a resetting vocalizer. The only injuries I can see are minor scuffs and dents. They might be the end of the world to Knock Out, but I’m not picky about my plating.

  “Your cranial casing is dented,” Knock Out reports. “I  _ was _ going to pop it back when you decided to wake up.”

  That would explain the helmache. I vent heavily. “Just get it over with,” I mumble. I’m probably concussed. I ought to be shoving the medic away and striding out of here to fix myself. But the lights are so painfully bright and my limbs are so terribly heavy…

  My world goes dark as Knock Out removes my helmet.

 

  That night, visions of the twins do battle on my ceiling.

 

~~~

 

END OF CHAPTER ONE


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Dreadwing has a very bad day.

All characters belong to their original creators. Only the writing itself is mine.

 

“Blah” = Spoken dialogue

::Blah:: = Comm lines

_ “Blah” _ = Telepathy

_ Blah _ = Private thoughts

~Blah~ = Bonded talk

//Blah// = Sign Language

 

UB CHAPTER TWO

 

  Two days later, a call comes in from one of our richer mines. The Vehicon only has time to report that they’re under attack before the line goes dead. Soundwave closes it and turns to Megatron.

  A scowl distorts the Warlord’s features. Before he can speak, I stride forward.

  “My liege, allow me to defend the mine. I will not -”

  “Let the Autobots escape? Like you let them have the relic?” Megatron arches a brow ridge at me. “Perhaps I should send Starscream instead.”

  The wiry Seeker perks up at the prospect. “Yes, send me!  _ I _ will not fail you.” He smirks nastily in my direction.

  I curl my lip at the overeager Air Commander. He’s been nothing but trouble ever since I was appointed Second in Command. Frankly, he was a pain before; now I know he is gunning for me.

  “A failure for which I will be avenged,” I say, bowing slightly. I don’t need to fein the bubbling frustration in my EM field.

  Megatron rounds on me. By the slant of his brow ridges, I know I’ve misspoken. I grit my dentae and stand my ground.

  “Do you presume to give yourself tasks? Your fragile ego means nothing compared to the Decepticon cause.” Megatron is only half an helm taller than I, but he’s broader and heavier. He puts his size to good use as he looms into my personal space.

  I lower my wings and optics, the only concession I’m willing to make. I will not become a sniveling suck up who begs for every scrap. “No, my liege. I seek only to remove the blemish created by my previous failing. Allow me this honor, my liege.” I risk raising my gaze to meet Megatron’s.

  A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Since you’re both so eager, how about you go together?” He steps past me, EM flickering with amusement. “Whoever snuffs a ‘bot -well, you  _ won’t _ get what whoever doesn’t gets.”

  Starscream is ordering me around before Megatron is even off the bridge. I fold my arms and glare down my faceplate.

 

~~~

 

  It’s a disaster from the get-go. Starscream takes the five Eradicons we brought and performs exactly one strafing run. Then he’s struck in the wing, so he lands himself  _ and _ his team. Nevermind that none of the Eradicons are wounded.

  I try to order them back into the air, but Starscream countermands me. Out of frustration, I pull rank. Before I can complete the order, the Prime lands a shot on the back of my helm. Something fitzes painfully and then my comm blinks out with an error message.

  Fragging great.

  I whirl to face the Prime, sword drawn. He blocks, pivots on one pede, and lands a kick in the center of my chest.

  Winded, I give ground. This is exactly what I wanted today. For Prime to suddenly remember to use his pedes.

  Luckily for me he promptly forgets how to kick, which gives me enough of an edge to drive him back a few paces. Just as I get in a solid punch to the tank, something wet smacks into my back.

  Expecting acid, I leap away, sealing every gap in my protoform. My best chance for water is downhill through thick looking underbrush. I hate this planet.

  No burning heat eats into my plating. Experimentally, I touch the wetness on my back. My fingers return bright orange.

  “Oh Primus! Did you see his face?” Raucous laughter draws the eye of my storming rage.

  It’s the twins.

  On my peripheries, I’m aware of the scolding coming from Optimus. Starscream is falling back with the two remaining Eradicons. Bulkhead and Wheeljack are shoving precious crystals into their subspaces.

  My attention is narrowed onto the red and yellow twins. They’ve stopped laughing so hard. Now Sideswipe grins widely at me as he leans on Sunstreaker’s shoulder.

  “That orange looks pretty good with your paint job! Hope you like it, ‘cause it’s not going anywhere!” shouts Sideswipe.

  I see red. My legs move before I give the go ahead, carrying me across the interfering distance. My blaster is drawn and firing one shot after the other. Distantly, I hear myself roaring a challenge.

  Sideswipe’s face takes on a comically surprised expression as Sunstreaker shoves himself between me and his twin. He has a beautiful silver sword clasped in both hands. The elegance of the blade flies past me in my present state. All I can see is an obstacle between me and my enemies.

  I use the barrel of my blaster to knock the sword aside. My momentum, plus my weight, crashes down on the twins. We go down in a tangle, me on top. I can feel the frontliners’ EMs meshing and fusing with each other. They prick and pull on mine in a stark reminder of the ever-present raw edges.

  “Don’t you fragging touch me!” I scream. My hands find someone’s neck and wrap around it. My vision clears just in time to see a dark fist rocketing at my faceplates. I don’t even try to dodge.

  The pain, as my cheek ridge indents, reminds me that I’m still alive. I let it flood into my EM to drive back the twins’ shared field. The one punching me falters, seeds of horror germinating.

  I give Sunstreaker -the one I’m choking- a shake. “Didn’t you hear? Your cherished leader terminated my twin. Shot him down, like a malfunctioning turbohound.”

  “That’s enough.” The Prime’s deep timber makes my back plating bristle. He gets ahold of my arm and collar fairing before I can turn around. I’m hoisted, kicking and snarling, as the twins scramble away.

  As their EM fields disengage mine, I feel my fury retreat. Humiliation slithers in its place, heating my faceplates. I conceal it by turning a dangerous glare at the brightly coloured Autobots. “Don’t think I won’t repay what  _ he _ took from me. One of you -”

  The Prime drops and shoves me away in one motion. “I said that’s enough!” he barks. “If you want vengeance for your brother, take it from me. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had nothing to do with it.”

  I drag a snarl from the depths of my engine. In the back of my mind, I know I’m behaving nothing like myself. It’s like a wild mechanimal has reached out of its box and taken control of my processor.

  “You have no twin,” I spit. “Your punishment will be to watch one of them wither away into nothing, and know it is your fault.”

  Sunstreaker charges me with a primal yell. A mix of anger and fear is leaching the colour from his optics, a sign of just how far I’ve pushed him. I have enough common sense left to know I don’t stand a chance against three mechs. I turn and run, collapsing into alt as soon as I have a little speed.

  I can hear Sunstreaker screaming threats as I tear away from the mine. The coolness of the sky washes through my shaking EM. It takes me longer than I’d like to admit before I feel fully in control of myself. Only then do I call for a groundbridge.

  My comm is still offline. My wings shudder with repressed frustration. My plating itches where the paint is clinging, no doubt smearing all over my internals. I’m never going to get it all off.

  Primus below. I didn’t destroy the mine. I have the entire flight back to contemplate how to explain my failure, not to mention my disobedience. Standing protocol dictates destruction of resources the Decepticons cannot use. It’s wasteful and shortsighted most of the time, but I can’t deny the logic of depriving our enemy of fuel.

  I land on the flightdeck, shaking leaf bits out of my seams. How they got there, I don’t know. I don’t even remember touching a tree. With difficulty, I scratch at my back. The fragging orange paint is still there, slowly sinking in as it overrides my nanites’ natural colours. So that’s what Sideswipe meant, I’ll be stuck with it.

  I glance around the flightdeck. Finding it empty, I allow myself a moment to breath deeply. Clouds are scudding across the indigo sky, disguising the stars. I want to go flying with my brother. He liked to perform stunts and give them the most ridiculous names. I always acted annoyed. Now I wish I had told him how much amusement he brought me.

  A sharp sting behind my optics brings me back to the present. Quickly, I shut down my errant thoughts. Already, I have to walk the halls painted orange. If I’m sobbing too, I might as well shoot myself now.

  I wall off my spark in preparation for the inevitable snickering. Primus. I have to report to Lord Megatron like this.

  Primus. Starscream got to him first.

 

~~~

 

  Today makes the list of ‘top ten worst days of my life.’ I just want it to be over so I can go to my quarters and try to sleep.

  Instead, I’m stuck sterilizing Shockwave’s tools. Most of them look more like instruments of torture than scientific equipment. Based on the ugly mix of coolant and energon congealing on some, Shockwave’s been kidnapping Vehicons again.

  I shove the next load under the water and start scrubbing. I think the only decent thing about this planet is the copious amounts of universal solvent. 

  My armor is crawling with pent up agitation. Every little thing sets my dentae on edge. The inadequate overhelm lighting. The ache between my wings from standing too long. The memory of Starscream’s bastardized account of the battle.

  One of these days, I am going to strangle that runt Seeker. He is a lying, scheming,  _ treacherous _ little -!

  A sharp edge nicks my finger. I yank it back with a curse, inspecting the bead of energon. I squeeze it, just to watch it roll between my armor seams and drop into the filthy water.

  This is a complete and utter disgrace. I am an elite warrior, a commander of troops, a master of martial arts. And I am scrubbing equipment like a drone.

  I return to my task with a vengeance. 

 

It’s late in the night cycle by the time I finish. I estimate I have four hours before my shift on the bridge. That’s enough time to defragment today’s memories, but not enough to completely sync them with previous files. I’ve been needing more and more recharge just to maintain my processor functions. It’s a sure sign of my deteriorating condition.

  I massage the line where my forehelm meets my helmet. Processor aches, clumsiness, dizzy spells; they’re all symptoms of a destabilizing bond. I’ve seen twins and bondmates fade and die after losing their companions. There are three types: The ones who die instantly, the ones who go wild and kill themselves, and the ones who linger.

  I’m the latter. I’ve lasted longer than I thought I would; most only hold on a few weeks at most. But I won’t be able to hide the symptoms much longer. Now that they’re taking hold, they will intensify exponentially.

  In my distraction with my aching helm, I fail to watch the floor. Something catches the toe of my pede and sends me stumbling forwards. A row of beakers loom in my vision. My arm snaps out of its own accord, snagging an exposed pipe. It folds under my weight.

  A crash echos around the lab, sending a quiver across every fluid surface. I lie there for a minute, waiting for my gyros to settle down. Textbook symptoms right here. If I suffer such a lapse in Lord Megatron’s sight…

  With a grunt of effort, I push myself to my pedes. For the sake of appearances I examine the ground where I tripped.

  Nothing. I switch my attention to the wall I ripped the pipe off of. I should at least try to fix it, just in case it’s used for something important.

  It isn’t a wall. I start with surprise at the sight of a disguised door. If I hadn’t been looking so closely, I would never have spotted the recessed control panel or the thin rectangular frame.

  The Dreadwing from before would have left it alone. He would not have questioned what Shockwave could be hiding here. He would have assumed it was a secret project for the betterment of the Decepticon cause.

  I am not that mech.

  Cautiously, I tap the control panel. It beeps and obediently slides the door open. My wings lift with surprise. I expected it to be locked and unhackable. Is Shockwave relying on invisibility to protect his secret?

  My optics flick back and forth to examine the whole lab. It’s significantly smaller than his main one -little more than a glorified storage closet. The walls are lined with computers, casting a blue glow over the chamber.

  Most of the text is scientific jargon. I skim over the diagrams, reading what I can without setting pede in the lab. There are schematics for a Cybertronian, though I don’t recognise the frametype. Others are images of nanites and CNA.

  The main attraction squats in the center of the room. A tube, round and clear, stretches floor to ceiling. Wires and energon lines trail within it, disappearing into the massive frame inside.

  I’ve never seen a ‘tronian this size or this shape. He’s dark in colour and positively bristling with elegant barbs. A tail, long and sinuous, coils around his body. His helm, when I pick it out from his frame, is adorned with vicious mandibles and dentae. The shape sends a primal chill of dread through my weakened spark.

  With careful steps, I approach the tank. The beastformer’s field is quiet, peaceful. Yet the promise of strength underlies it, if only in the sheer power of his EM. He has a warrior’s spark under his jagged chestplate.

  From the side I can see something else: wings. Wings wholly alien to me. There are too many joints for them to hold up at high speed. They’re big too. They look more like the wings of the birds of this planet.

  I stare at the mech’s profile. The pronged ridges, the ribbed wings; this frametype is familiar. I can feel the name sticking somewhere between my processor and glossa.

  “You are not authorized to be here.”

  I jump about four feet straight up. Before I even land, my sword is drawn and pointed at the threat.

  Shockwave’s single yellow optic stares mildly back. Behind him, Lord Megatron glares disapprovingly.

  Oh Primus, why can’t the floor just eat me up? I straighten my backstrut and stow my weapon. “My Lord. Shockwave,” I say, inclining my helm to both of them.

  “Care to explain what you’re doing in here?” drawls Megatron. His mouth is pinched tight, but his optics aren’t fully narrowed. I have a chance to salvage the situation, if I’m smart.

  “I stumbled across this lab while I was cleaning. I only wished to ensure none of the missing Vehicons were here.” I lower my helm and keep it there. I can’t keep my optics from flicking to Shockwave at the mention of the Vehicons. The whole ship knows he’s kidnapping them. Why Megatron doesn’t stop him is a mystery.

  Megatron steps into the lab, glancing languidly about. “I see no Vehicons, missing or otherwise. Do you, Shockwave?”

  “Negative, my Lord.” The scientist never cuts his optic away from me. I feel like he’s mentally dissecting me. Rumour has it, he’s fascinated with twins. I swallow back my nerves and speak.

  “My concerns were unfounded, clearly. By your leave, I shall return to my dut -”

  Megatron cuts me off with one step. His EM field expands around me, drowning out the beastformer’s sleeping presence. My optics go wide with alarm, but I hold my ground.

  “You will speak to no one of this project. If I hear so much as a whisper, there will not be enough left of you to recycle!” Megatron’s sharp dentae and blazing optics fill my vision.

  “Of course not, my Lord,” I agree easily. I had no intention of sharing my find, and I neither partake in gossip nor have anyone to confide in. The beastformer project is simply another entry in my list of odd happening on the Nemesis.

  Megatron rises to his full height. He and Shockwave exchange a glance, then he addresses me again. “I think a suitable punishment will be assisting Shockwave in his lab. See that you report here on your next off duty shift.” He slides out from between me and the door, smirking.

  My wings weigh three times more than normal as I exit.

 

~~~

 

END OF CHAPTER TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that Dreadwing and Predaking have some interesting parallels and I want to explore how they would interact with each other.


	4. Chapter 4

All characters belong to their original creators. Only the writing itself is mine.

 

“Blah” = Spoken dialogue

::Blah:: = Comm lines

_ “Blah” _ = Telepathy

_ Blah _ = Private thoughts

~Blah~ = Bonded talk

//Blah// = Sign Language

 

UB CHAPTER THREE

 

  I fold my wings as close as possible to my back. The maintenance panel I need to access is flush with a support beam for the Nemesis, making it a very small space. My large frame does not fit well.

  With difficulty, I wriggle into the narrow gap between the ship’s inner and outer hull. There’s a malfunctioning sensor somewhere around here. Soundwave wants it found and fixed. Since I’m still on punishment detail, I got the job.

  I hold a current detector to the wiring. The problem is probably a broken circuit -common and simple, but outrageously difficult to locate.

  All the wires behind this panel are firing as normal. I vent heavily and start to make my way out. I have to move in an awkward side-to-side shuffle on my back. My only consolation is that no one is around to see.

  Finally free of the dusty hole, I roll to my knees and shake my wings loose. Scratches sting over their backs in places I physically cannot reach. I console myself by imagining my malfunctioning nanites flaking away and taking with them the blasted orange. It’s faded over the course of a few days, leaving a muddy coloured stain on my back. Rage now fills me at the sight of the colour orange.

  A musical  _ whirr _ sounds down the hall. I spin around and stand, just in time for Laserbeak to glide in. She hovers at optic level and pings my comm.

  I accept wordlessly. Laserbeak does not speak, nor does she enjoy being spoken to. She silently transmits a set of coordinates within the ship, accompanying it with instructions to move there.

  “Soundwave localized the malfunction?” I ask.

  Lazerbeak bobs up and down in the air.

  I hold in a sigh. Of course she isn’t going to give me a straight answer. “Thank you,” I say out of politeness. I turn and start walking towards the indicated area.

  Lazerbeak whirrs a few more times before soaring away. I listen until her engine fades from hearing, then glance over my shoulder. Soundwave could have told me where to go over comms. The only reason to send Laserbeak is to check that I am doing what I’m supposed to. My mistake in Shockwave’s lab is not easily forgotten, it seems.

  I leave with a twitch of my wings.

 

  I’m on my back and halfway inside the ship’s wall when I’m next disturbed. This mech is even less welcome than Laserbeak.

  “Well well well, what have we here?” The medic -nominally- prods my legs with his pede.

  I can’t cut off a jump at the contact. My fingertips brush a live wire, sending a harsh shock through my frame. “Knock Out!” I exclaim, treating the name like a curse.

  “The one and only!” he replies, a grin obvious in his voice. Then he steps over my legs to crouch beside the removed panel. “You might want to reel in you field a little. Might give someone the  _ wrong idea. _ Or the right one, if you catch my drift.”

  I stare at the exposed wiring from much longer than I care to admit.  _ My… field? Ideas? Is this narcissist trying to  _ proposition _ me? _

  “You will keep your  _ ideas _ to yourself, if you know what’s good for you.” I wriggle partway out of the wall to better glare at the medic. “The same goes for any other body parts you wish to keep.”

  Knock Out raised his hands innocently, taking a few steps back. “Of course, of course. Now, your field? Unless you are trying to give me the wrong idea?” The grin returns. I would punch him right now if I thought I could get away with it.

  “What about my field?” I snap instead. Perturbed, I reach out to the edges of my EM to see what is bothering the doctor so -and discover that my field is thoroughly wrapped up in his.

  I let out an involuntary bleat of static as I hasten to disconnect. It’s difficult; every time I get one section untangled, another one has reattached itself. Worse, I can feel the medic’s responses to my rising panic.

  Amusement at first, then puzzlement that gives way to a slightly disturbed understanding.

  “You  _ can’t _ make it let go, can you?” Knock Out asks, prowling closer.

  More static falls from my vocalizer. Like a sparkling, I yank myself back into the wall and raise trembling hands to the wires above me. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?” I try to ignore the tremor in my voice. It feels so,  _ so _ good to have another mech’s EM field interlaced with mine. My unsteady spark beats stronger at even that slight contact.

  Knock Out has  _ got _ to move away. I can’t make my field disengage, so he’s going to have to do it. And he’d better do it soon before that boxed-up mechanimal in my helm takes over.

  The medic grabs me by the pede and wrenches me out of the wall. Metal grates on my wings in painful grooves, but I don’t yell. I’m too busy muting my vocaliser on the inappropriate gasp that wants to break free.

  “Not so fast, flyboy. We’re not done here.” Knock Out’s face is unreadable.

  I kick him in the chest. It sends him staggering into the far wall, which is far enough to snap a few strands of our EMs. The backlash makes me wince, but I don’t waste time on the pain. I flip myself into alt and crank my thrusters up to max. The abrupt severment of our joined fields is like an acidwash inside my chest.

 

  Drone patrols jump out of my way as I tear through the ship. I navigate half on instinct, half on desperation. Left here, two rights there -and then I have to stop for a lift.

  I punch the button much harder than necessary and keep pushing it until the doors open. I stumble in and order the lift to the flight deck. The doors shut and motion makes my gyros lurch.

  The wall is cool and vibrating under my arm. I press my forehelm to it, trying to force myself to cycle air. My armor is tight, restrictive. My limbs are too long and my organs feel like they might burst out of my chassis. I feel slow and vulnerable in my groundbound root mode.

  Inside the lift, I’m confined. The walls are squeezing in on my fragile body. I can sense it -the lift is going to stop and trap me here for the rest of my functioning. I’ll die here, closed in and cut off from the open air.

  I force another puff of air through my vents. It tastes stale and lifeless. Too many mecha have breathed this air before me. Their filters have scrubbed it until it’s sterile as my homeworld.

  The lift judders to a halt. I practically fling myself out the doors before they’re done opening.

  “Whoa, Commander!” A Vehicon stumbles out of my path.

  He is irrelevant. All I can think about is the safety of my altmode and the freedom of the sky. My frame folds into a jet all on its own and I careen across the flightdeck. I think someone tries to contact my comm, but I shut off my HUD without looking. The internal display of my system stats and my location and my thruster temperature all go blessedly silent.

  All I have to worry about is staying in the air. The air is so much better than that musty ship. The air doesn’t have strange beastformers or lying Warlords or flirtatious doctors.

  ...Primus, my EM feels like it’s going to explode.

  I snarl, urging a boost of power from my thrusters. The wind screams over my wings with force enough to rattle the flaps. A warning ping tries to sneak onto my internal diagnostics despite my best efforts to shut it down. Something about temperature thresholds and my thrusters.

  I put myself into a sideways tumble that would probably kill a Human pilot. I let myself fall, spinning, until I hit the clouds. The water vapor conducts my EM field differently. I can’t decide if it feels better or worse.

  Abruptly, I pull myself out of my fall and rocket ahead. Only my sonar and my EM can penetrate these clouds. It’s like being wrapped in a cold, wet blanket. Again, I’m not sure if I like it or not.

  My EM feels better. Some of the excess charge is leaking off into the clouds. Suddenly, I have an idea. This planet has storms, right? And lightning is caused by differences in electric charge across an area?

  I need to find an electric storm.

 

~~~

 

  By the time I return to the Nemesis, my plating is scorched and trembling with exhaustion. There’s gravel in my seams from a bad landing and my optics keep glitching static. My vocaliser hurts too. I guess that’s from the screaming.

  I touch down on the flightdeck without transforming. My oft neglected landing gear sags under my weight as I roll slowly into the sparse shelter of the ship’s hull. I don’t want to go back inside yet. All that’s waiting for me are reprimands and mind games and empty quarters.

  The low hum of the Nemesis’ engine, accompanied by the gentle caress of air, lulls me to sleep. I don’t put up much of a fight. Even with my internal diagnostics off, I know I’ve pushed my frame to its limits. Maybe a little beyond.

  Well. If that’s what it takes to get some recharge, so be it.

 

~~~

 

  I startle awake, disoriented and braced to fight. The first thing I notice is that I’m not where I went to sleep; I’m inside someplace. My thrusters pop -and pain flares from them, inciting another burst of power.

_ Crunch. _

  “Fragging glitched up motherboards!” I yelp, reflexively transforming to grab my nosecone. It’s unfortunate that I was already too close to the wall. This time, it’s my helm that hits it, producing a distinct  _ thunk. _

  “Commander!” exclaims the absolute last voice I want to hear.

  “Is this your idea of a joke!?” I snarl, whirling around to face the medic. Too late, I realize my mistake. My nosecone -which still hurts- ends up over my crotch in my root mode. So I’m sitting on the floor, glaring up at the damn medic, while clutching my helm and panel. What a sight I must be.

  With a wordless growl of my engine, I shove myself to my pedes. Only to fall with a gasp as pain shoots through my engine and thrusters. It drops me to my knees where I stay, hunched around my core.

  “Commander,” Knock Out says again, this time with more concern than humour. “Please try to hold still. You’ve burnt out relays  _ all over _ your chassis. Not to mention the state of your paint.” He tutt-tutts at me.

  “What gave you the bright idea to move around a mech recharging in his altmode? And why were you even on the flight deck?” Slowly, I cycle down my engine until the pain is bearable. I’m not sure if I can sit up yet, but the medic doesn’t need to know that. Better he thinks I’m hiding out of embarrassment than he learns I actually can’t move.

  “Hm. So that’s what you’re calling it these days.” Knock Out examines the play of light on a fistful of wires.  _ “I _ would have called it borderline stasis lock,” he says pointedly.

  I grunt inelegantly and don’t move.

  “What in Primus’ name were you doing, anyway? Playing with jumper cables? If you want a little fun with your EM, you need look no further than me.” The medic flares his field suggestively.

  “No.” The storm bled off the worst of the excess charge in my EM, so I’m able to retract it. I unfold my arms and push off the floor, dragging my unwilling frame upright. My limbs shake treacherously.

  Knock Out’s engine rumbles disapprovingly. “Do hold still. I’m not done fixing -”

  “Yes, you are.” I push him out of my way, dentae bared at the physical contact. I stumble to the door and stagger out when it opens automatically. The medic’s fussing cuts off when it slides shut again.

  I barely manage to take in the empty hall before I slump back against the wall. Every single joint aches nonstop. My tanks are shifting somewhere between nausea and hunger. Honestly, I’m not sure if I can make it back to my quarters.

  I turn my face to the wall. Would it really be so bad if I slept here? It’s certainly dark enough, and at least I won’t online searching for another frame.

  Who am I kidding? I can't sleep in the hallway, not unless I want the Vehicons to trip over me. Or worse, one of the officers. Knock Out… I don't know what the doctor is going to do with what he knows about me. So far, it looks like he plans to wait until I'm too desperate to refuse his advances. But if Starscream or Shockwave were to come across me…

  It isn't worth the risk. My joints groan as I push away from the wall. My quarters feel infinitely distant to my tired frame as I trudge towards them. All I want to do is go to sleep and stay that way for the next couple days. My processor aches with fragmented data and an overstuffed short term storage.

  A trio of Vehicons skitter away from me, casting frightened glances over their shoulders. I’m confused for a moment, but then I remember nearly running over several of them in my mad flight a few hours ago. Was it a few hours ago? I turn on my HUD to check my chronometer.

  My internal display  _ explodes _ with alerts. I physically recoil from the onslaught, optics shuttering rapidly. Warnings about my overheated thrusters scroll past, quickly changing to repair notifications. My schedule has pinged me several times in my absence -I have missed lab duty and a shift on the Bridge.

  ::Dreadwing, report your location.::

  ::You have not reported to my lab. Have you been waylaid?::

  ::Dreadwing, your lifesignal indicates you have left the Nemesis. Wh -::

  I cut off the audio message and cancel the six or seven queued up after it. Shockwave is just going to have to wait until I feel like dealing with him. I dismiss the rest of my system notifications as I call a lift.

  Once inside, I slump strutlessly against the wall. My sparkbeat feels too heavy inside my chamber. I can’t imagine Shockwave accepting my explanation for why I missed my shift.  _ Sorry sir, I had a panic attack because my EM was glitching so I went and chased lightning for a couple hours. _ I scoff as I exit the lift. Yeah, that would go over like a stack of cubes. I’d probably end up on the wrong end of some half baked experiment. I shiver as I type in my passcode. Chances are, the scientist already has plans to get me on his table.

  I only take one step into my quarters before the presence of another mech registers. My hand flies to my sword as my legs launch me backwards. “What the frag -!”

  It’s Megatron. The fragging creep is in my quarters, leaning against the wall like  _ I’m _ the one who’s out of place. Nausea floods my tank, turning my insides solid. I’m not sure if I should assert my ownership of these quarters or back down to avoid angering him.

  We stare at each other for far longer than is comfortable. Megatron’s faceplates don’t change, aside from a tiny hint of a smirk at my growing unease. Or perhaps that’s just my imagination.

  My legs tremble just the tiniest bit. I can’t keep standing in the hallway, not when I really need to sleep off these repairs.

  I wet my lips. “My Lord. What… do you want?” The wording rings wrong with me as soon as the glyphs leave my mouth.

  Megatron’s optics narrow ever so slightly. “What do I want?” he repeats softly. “I want to crush the Prime’s helm with my own two hands. I want to raise Cybertron into the light of new glory. I want my power to be respected by all of the universe.” He paces languidly across my quarters.

  I resist the urge to give ground to him. My spark is hammering away inside my chest, hard enough that I  _ know _ I won’t be able to keep the fear out of my EM.

  The silvery mech pauses in my doorway, hands clasped behind his back “For now, though, I would settle for subordinates who DO AS THEY’RE TOLD!” he shouts.

  I flinch without conscious thought.  _ Oh Primus I’ve lost, I’ve lost - _ I shrink back to the wall, my sword clattering from my nerveless fingers.

  Megatron kicks it aside as he advances on me. “Be grateful Soundwave is competent enough to pick up your slack,  _ Dreadwing.” _ He says my name the same way he says Starscream’s. His breath -it smells like dark energon. I think I might be sick.

  “You will report to Shockwave’s lab for alpha shift tomorrow. Then you will have the bridge until sixteen hundred, local time. After that, you will supervise clean up of mine C-11. When that is over, you will report to Soundwave for any tasks he might have for you.” Megatron seizes me by the chin. “Do I make myself clear?”

  It takes me a minute to force-reboot my vocaliser. “Yes my Lord, of course.” My voice is strained and thin in my audials. Megatron’s EM field squeezes mine chokingly, like he wants to crush me with his field alone. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could.

  I feel Megatron’s purple-red optics search my face. “Good,” he says finally. He releases my chin with a pat to my cheek. The pressure of his field lessens as he starts to saunter away. “See that you perform to my satisfaction. It would be a shame if you went the same way as your useless brother,” he calls over his shoulder.

  Rage. Rage like the fire of a dying star. My vision narrows down to a tiny point as it floods my frame with strength I haven’t felt since Skyquake went into stasis.

  “My brother…” My hands ball up into fists. “My brother  _ died _ for your cause. And you dare to call h -”

_ Slap. _

  I hit the floor palms first. My face hurts, my optic is glitching, I can’t seem to restart my vents.  _ What just happened? _ My chest suddenly feels empty. Blinking, I lift my optics to Megatron.

  He stares scornfully down at me. “Stay down, Dreadwing.” And then he turns his back and walks away.

  My mouth moves hopelessly. Slowly, the reality of what I just tried to do sinks in. I raise a shaking hand to my mouth and bite it until I taste energon. Sick terror wraps its claws around my tank and I suddenly can’t keep my fuel down.

  I purge what little I’ve managed to eat. When that’s gone, I keep heaving. I’m trembling too badly to even try to move away from the putrid mess.

_ Oh Primus below what was I thinking? _ I was about to attack Megatron. I tried to… If he hadn’t hit me… I slump back against the wall, pede bumping my sword. It spins a slow, wavering circle.

  I almost reach out for it, but something stops me. Do I really deserve such a weapon when I would turn it on my own leader? I pull my arms up close to my chassis and huddle to the wall. Without my permission, my hand starts stroking a wing. That knot tangled up between my spark and tank loosens a tiny bit. There’s nothing to but but  _ keep _ petting my wings with hard, punishing strokes that wrinkle the thin plating.

  A hybrid of a retch and a sob escape my throat. I grab a handful of each wing and pull so I can feel the strain on my spine. When that becomes too mild, I yank on them. I hunch over my knees, forehelm to the ground, and squeeze dents into my wings.

_ He just… turned his back on me. As if I was lower than the dirt on his pedes. _ I clawed at my wings again, but it wasn’t enough.  _ You  _ are _ a useless little fool. Attack your leader? Defy him? _ I sink my dentae into my wrist with a dry sob.

_ Your brother would be ashamed of you. _

 

~~~

 

END OF CHAPTER THREE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, Dreadwing is not off having happy funtimes with thunderstorms. His spark is destabilizing, which is bleeding over into his EM field, and he's coping with it by directing the charge into stormclouds. He could deal with it through some field play with someone else, but he really, /really/ doesn't want to.


End file.
